Fortune Has Fallen
by dferveiro
Summary: Ben Asher knew one day his luck would run out; he couldn't rely on Mike Banning to save his hide forever. With less than 2 years to go in office, he takes matters into his own hands-and not a second too late before another attack comes.
1. Chapter 1

FORTUNE HAS FALLEN

a/n: This is a strange piece for me because there is little dialogue given the situation. But that makes for a lot of action, so I think it works. It's been a long time since I've written for this site, but I hope you enjoy. Focus is on Ben Asher but Mike will feature too.

-0-0-0-0-

After the taking of the White House, and the fall of London, Benjamin Asher was certain of one thing: he couldn't rely on perfect timing or Mike Banning forever. At some point, his luck would run out.

In the shadows when no one was looking, the façade of the perfectly in control Commander-in-Chief was gone. He woke up more often than not, sweating and heart racing as he felt the blade of that crude sword against his skin. He could hear the swoosh of it cutting through the air in that London building. His torso still bore the scar from when Kang shot him in Washington, and now he couldn't even watch an action movie with Connor without the sounds of gunfire jolting him.

Logically, he was justified to have these flashbacks. The memories would tear anyone apart. But he wasn't just anyone. And he didn't want those terrorists having such a lasting impact on him. He knew he was kidding himself to think they didn't leave psychological scars. Having Mike around helped, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the man retired. Mike was just as close to death each time, and he knew with a child and his wife, he couldn't expect him to keep laying his life on the line. Even if Mike would do it anyway….

It was four months ago when he realized something had to change. The fireworks from the 4th of July celebration had been expected, but somewhere in the long presentation of beautiful colors and loud explosions, he'd blacked out. Only Connor and two Secret Service agents noticed, but he came to quickly enough to call off any overt reaction from them. If he was honest with himself, he knew the sound had triggered the memory of flying debris scraping against his skin as that warehouse in London exploded.

This all didn't include how clammy his hands got every time he boarded the Marine One helicopter.

So enough was enough. He swore the nighttime Service agents to secrecy, as much as they could obscure or normalize his movements. He didn't want Mike to know, or else the man would never feel like he could retire.

Ben started training.

The Secret Service had excellent self-defense and hand-to-hand combat trainers. For an hour each night, he was in his private gym at the White House, spending more times with his face pressed to the floor mats than he'd care to admit. But he learned. Once a week, he varied it up by going to the Secret Service's shooting range. Handling guns, caring for them, shooting, learning what affected his aim, where the best places to hit were and how they would affect an enemy…. These were the lessons he learned.

In hindsight, training can only prepare you for so much. Ben knew that after his limousine vaulted in the air on impact from an RPG.

-0-0-0-0-

It was supposed to be a goodwill tour of Russia. Diplomatic relations with the country were strained. Four days in the country were supposed to be spent in negotiations, meetings, a gala, and visiting several beauties of the country. Ben had endured little movement in the trade negotiations as well as peaceful solutions to problems in the area. The gala had been boring but Ben put on his best performance of civility.

People flocked to him, which made his Secret Service detail nervous—even if everyone had been screened. Ben shook hands like a good world leader, laughed at jokes that were meant as veiled insults and threats, and managed to leave the gala ahead of schedule.

As he lay in bed that night, in the most secure suite available in the country at a hotel with bullet-proof glass, Benjamin tried a simple exercise of counting down from 549. It was the number of days left as President. It calmed him. When he first started this nightly routine, the number of days lasted longer than his wakefulness.

Not now. Ben couldn't shake the feeling he wouldn't survive his presidency.

Day 3 of the Russia trip included a convoy to a decommissioned nuclear test site; always a hot topic of conversation, and apparently an example of what more progress could be made in countries with similar nuclear powers. The Russian-equivalent of the Secretary of State accompanied him for the day's trip.

"I think you will find the site eye-opening," the statesman said. Ben couldn't remember his name at the moment.

"I'm sure," Ben said. His eyes focused on the green trees whipping by the limousine. The car, along with the armed escort ahead of it and behind it, sped through the countryside. Ben couldn't remember how long it'd been since they'd seen a house or business. Isolation was a good rule of thumb for nuclear sites, active or not.

His Secret Service driver, Costas, and Agent Wilmington, sitting next to him, didn't see the RPGs coming until it was too late. Ben saw multiple streaks of light and smoke coming at the convoy. He had just enough time to yell out "RPG!" before one hit the limo.

The limo vaulted off the ground, the entire vehicle shuddering from the impact. Screams filled the vehicle but Ben didn't remember making a sound. He grasped the seat belt with his hands, anchoring himself better as the car flipped upside down.

Ben felt the jolt of the car's roof hitting the ground. It rattled his bones, and pain flooded his body. He could already smell smoke, but he registered that the car hadn't stopped moving. It was skidding on its roof.

Suddenly something slammed into the limo from behind. Instinctively he knew it was one of the escort vehicles. The sound of another explosion reached his ears, maybe even a third if he thought about it enough, but without seeing exactly what was going on, the noise blurred everything.

Gunfire was next. Ben blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. The Russian statesman, Wilmington and Costas weren't moving. He heard bullets hit the car.

His hand reached for the seat beat buckle. He pushed at it until he fell free. Ben looked out the cracked window. He could see ahead on the road, where multiple SUVs were approaching. The gunfire flashed from those SUVs.

_They're attacking. You have to move for cover. _

Behind him, more SUVs approached. Another explosion finished off one of the president's many escort vehicles. None seemed unharmed. Ben swallowed dryly. Normally he would hear lots of shouting by now, someone frantically pulling him from the car or rushing to "secure" the President. No one was doing that this time.

_No one is able_. And Mike hadn't come on this trip, for once staying back home for a family-related reason that escaped Ben at the moment.

Ben took three breaths, his mind racing during that time. The road was off limits. He'd die or be captured there. But the forest was clear enough. The attack was coming from the SUVs. They could only go so far in the forest.

Ben crawled to Wilmington. The unnatural angle of his neck told Ben Wilmington wasn't with him anymore. Ben searched the man's jacket until he found his holstered gun and two extra clips of ammo on his belt. He continued searching for a phone, but suddenly a bullet found its way right through the limo's interior. It slammed into the seat next to Ben.

He yelled out and recoiled; he couldn't help it.

Shouts from outside the vehicle called his attention. They weren't in English. And they didn't sound scared either. Ben pocketed the two clips of ammunition.

"They're coming," Ben said aloud. It grounded him into action.

The back of the limo was facing the forest treeline. The back window was cracked, but not completely broken. He kicked it; even cracked, it held fast. He tried again, three times, four—it wavered but held.

Ben aimed Wilmington's gun at the back window. With a quick flip of the safety, he followed with a shaky squeeze of the trigger. The sound hurt his ears, but the bullet weakened the glass. It partly gave way. Ben kicked it twice more, and the glass fell away as a semi-intact panel from the limo.

Ben grabbed his wool dress coat that had been set aside in the limo. He crawled through the back window. He kept the gun tightly in hand. Once free of the vehicle, he risked a look around from the cover the limo provided.

His detail was decimated. Only a few men made it out of the escort vehicles, but they were motionless on the ground. The Russian security was killed as well.

He heard the SUVs screech to a stop. Whoever the attackers were, they were here, ready to claim their prize.

Ben shut out all thoughts other than _RUN!_ He kept low to the ground and hurried towards the forest. He knew he had to put distance between himself and the attackers, and not stop. He braced himself for a bullet to gun him down.

But he made it to the treeline unharmed. He risked looking back from behind the cover of the trees. What he saw made him realize this was another attack that he was unlikely to survive.

Twelve men, maybe fifteen even, spread out over the fiery scene. They were heavily armed, and each wore black tactical gear and coats. Where there were bodies of their victims, the attackers shot them in the head. Ben felt sick. There was no chance of survivors.

They converged on the limo, their chatter and shouts growing louder.

Ben turned away and moved deeper in the forest.

They knew he wasn't there. He had gotten away.

Now the chase began.


	2. Chapter 2

a/n: I know this isn't a hugely followed movie fandom, but hopefully there's more interest in this story to come. Reviews are greatly appreciated!

Chapter 2

-0-0-0-0-

The coat was a little excessive at the moment as Ben ran through the forest, but he needed his hands free. Winter was coming soon; the air was cool enough to hint at it. Ben worried about the night though. He didn't hold any delusions that he would be to safety by night fall.

Shouts were coming from his path behind him. They were far enough away that Ben knew he wasn't going to be seen yet, so long as he stayed ahead. And that meant moving.

Each step jostled the aches and bruises he had. He had allowed himself fifteen seconds to look over himself to ensure he wasn't bleeding, other than a cut to his temple where he'd hit it in the explosion. That was no big deal. But the bruises were starting to bother him more. The adrenaline was wearing off.

The forest's trees were tall. They blocked out the light so much that Ben had to check what time it was. Nearing 2 pm, local time, he saw as he checked his watch. But the sunlight was hard-pressed to break through the branches.

Ben's foot caught on a tree root, and he pitched forward. The gun fell from his hand as he tried to brace his fall. He cried out as his body hit the ground, including some rocks.

Ben heaved on the ground, trying to catch his breath. He rotated his ankle—tender, but it was fine otherwise. He started to roll to his side but the movement created a flare of agony. His hand went to the spot on his ribcage, above his left hip. The pressure resulted in a stinging pain as well. He snaked his hand under his coat and suit jacket. His fingertips felt something warm and slick—his own blood. The rocks had gashed his side.

"Get up," he whispered to himself. He bit down on his tongue as he forced himself to his knees. His eyes searched the ground for the gun.

"_This way_!" someone shouted. It was far too close for Ben's liking, so much so that he almost didn't register that it was Russian the person spoke. He'd been taking up basics in the language lately. Frantically, he ran his fingers over the leaf-covered ground, feeling for the gun.

"Come on, come on!" he hissed to himself. He risked a look in the direction of the shouts, and saw a flash of movement.

Just then his hand hit the solid grip of the gun. Ben grabbed it, forced himself to his feet, and took off. He angled sharply to the left, hoping the sudden shift in direction would throw off his pursuers.

-0-0-0-

Mike Banning sat by the hospital bed of his daughter. Her breathing was improving now after a cough turned to RSV, but the lack of control in the situation made Mike crazy. Leah hid it well, perhaps because her nursing background let her know this was potentially serious, but they had caught it in time and were treating the illness. How she could be calm while he was playing the part of the paranoid parent….

His phone rang. He frowned at the caller ID. It was the director of the Secret Service. Mike stepped out into the hallway.

"Director Clemmens," he greeted.

"Agent Banning. There's been an attack on the President's convoy in Russia."

Leah assured him their daughter Lynne would be well taken care of, especially considering Mike was just going into town. Leah kissed him. Mike gently touched Lynne's face as she slept.

He hurried out of the hospital, fearing for Ben Asher and feeling guilty for not being with him at this moment.

-0-0-0-

_Okhotnik_. That's what they called him. It meant "Hunter," more a title but it had grown from his purpose to encompass his character. Hunter was fine with that.

His prey was running more efficiently than he expected, although he suspected he was wounded to some degree, based on the tracks through the forest. He expected the American President to be panicked, sloppy. There were no survivors of his or the Russian security team, so the man was alone.

Hunter stood and gestured to the north. Quietly—he finally got the team to stop shouting stupidly and giving away their position—the men dispersed in that direction. But he did not follow.

_Where are you going, Asher?_

Did the American even know? No. He was confident in that. So where would he think it wise to go?

"He doesn't know the land," Hunter whispered aloud. "He doesn't know what is safe and what is not."

Hunter pulled up a map on his GPS. He zoomed in the area, searched for possibilities….

_Where would he go?_

Hunter smiled thoughtfully at a few options.

-0-0-0-

Mike stared at the satellite image that was displayed on the wall before him and many people well above his pay grade. The entire convoy … all dead.

_Except one._

"How do we know they – whoever they are – don't have the President?" someone said.

"Because we'd know by now," Vice President Trumbull said as he entered the room. Everyone stood out of respect. He noticed Mike and nodded in his direction.

Mike had never felt so out of place in his life. He shouldn't be here, in this room, hearing what was going on through outdated information. He should be on the ground, the last line of defense for the President.

"How soon until we get a drone in the sky?" Trumbull asked.

"Russia is pushing back about drones in their airspace—"

"I don't care," Trumbull interrupted. "We don't know if they're involved or not; if there's a rebel element in their government or not. Our priority now is our Commander-in-Chief."

Mike appreciated the man's take-charge attitude.

His eyes went to the screen.

"Agent Banning," he heard by him. Mike snapped his attention to Trumbull.

"Mr. Vice President," he responded.

"Your analysis?"

Mike looked back to the display on the wall.

"Can we zoom out and see what's around the area?" he asked. Trumbull nodded to a 3-star general, who snapped his fingers at an aide. Within moments, the image zoomed out and showed a satellite image of the area on a wider scale.

Mike's eyes took in every detail he could. To the east was the nuclear site; the south was a city, but the road to it and the towns to the west were blocked by the carnage and the enemy's attack.

"The forest—that's where he is."

"If he's alive," a general commented.

Mike smirked. "He's alive."

Without any judgment, Trumbull asked, "How do you know?"

Banning smiled and pointed to the intact vehicles boxing the convoy in. "Because their vehicles are still there." The smile dropped. "They're looking for him on foot."

Trumbull frowned. "Any idea of his odds against the attackers?"

Mike thought about the will to survive he'd seen from the President firsthand; the extra mile or ten he'd go; the man's sense of honor and duty….

Agent Danforth, on the President's normal routine night detail, came to Banning's side. Mike could see he had something to say, but he waited.

"Just a moment, sir," Mike said to Trumbull. Mike followed Danforth to the hallway outside the secure briefing room.

"What is it, Danforth?"

"You should know what the President has been up to lately. It might help anticipate his movements," Danforth said. "And improve his odds."

-0-0-0-0-

The sky was overcast. Rain started to fall, but it was filtered through the trees and fell in lighter spats. Ben shook his coat, sending a spray off him. His hand was pressed against his side as he walked.

Walked. Occasionally it was a half-jog.

The longer he went without hearing the men chasing him, the more nervous he got. His bizarre life-and-death experiences taught him that. Quiet didn't equal safe. Noise didn't equal safe either. Nothing was safe.

Maybe he was cursed. What other president went through this, _this many times?!_

Had he cheated death that first time? Was his time more than up, and some cosmic scale was trying to rebalance? Death was inevitable; maybe fudging the timing wasn't allowed.

Ben's fingers regripped the handle of the gun. His hand was achy—he was gripping it too hard, but he feared losing his hold on the weapon.

Something whistled through the air. It was quiet enough, but Ben froze. He knew that sound, but what—

A bullet sank into a tree near Ben. Silenced gunfire whistled through the air.

Ben ran. The bullets hit around him, to his left, and also behind him. Ben cut to the right. The bullets followed, chasing him, driving him—

_They're not trying to kill me yet,_ he thought. _Where are they trying to get me to go?_

Suddenly he had his answer. Four men came out from behind cover of rocks and trees, in his path. Ben skid to a stop. _Shoot!_

The word came to mind as naturally as the voice of his Secret Service instructor who'd taught him once a week what to do when a target presented itself.

_Target_. That's all they were….

Almost as soon as his body stopped moving forward, Ben's right arm came up, the gun aimed at the first of the four men. Ben squeezed the trigger twice.

_Chest first._ Though the Secret Service would aim to kill, Ben's trainer taught him to just get the target down. Head shots would take too long to master. For now, it was more important to eliminate the immediate threat.

Two more shots, and the four men before him were suddenly just two. Ben saw the two left standing fire at him. Ben went to his knees. His left hand came up to support his right, and he fired twice more—one shot per man this time. He couldn't risk getting shot.

He blinked.

The four men were down.

He couldn't marvel for too long at the fruits of his training. He granted a half second to smirk, pushed away the knowledge he had killed them, and turned for cover behind a tree. Pursuing him were six men—no, eight. They were concealed and leap-frogging from cover to cover. Ben thought about his ammunition.

Six shots. That left six bullets in his current clip, and he had two more clips of 12 each, so 30 bullets left. From this distance and with the cover they had, Ben wasn't delusional enough to think he could push his chances. He had to run again.

His side was throbbing. Adrenaline was doing nothing to help mask it anymore. Ben figured he just might be out of adrenaline for the rest of the week anyway. The bullets being fired from the men behind him stopped, but he could hear the rustle of damp leaves as booted feet pursued him. Each time he glanced over his shoulder, they were getting closer.

Ben needed a miracle.

It came disguised as the ground suddenly ended before him. His path came to a modest cliff's edge, overlooking the forested valley below. Ben dug his heels in, trying to stop. The slippery leaves foiled his efforts.

Ben fell over the edge.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

a/n: Thank you for the reviews—if you enjoy this, please send a nod as it is very encouraging. Thank you for reading!

-0-0-0-0-

Mike paced as the drone circled the forest. Diplomatic relations be damned, the Vice President ordered the drone in place. They hadn't found President Asher yet. But they did find the attackers.

And as he suspected, they were searching the woods for someone.

The tension in the room was palpable as they watched the drone's viewpoint. Flying ahead in the direction the men were pursuing, the drone on infrared picked up one heat signature.

Someone in the room stupidly announced it was the President, about twenty seconds after everyone else already knew that. Mike let it go, focusing on the pace of the heat signature. _He's moving too slow. _

His mind reeled at what Agent Danworth told him. Why had President Asher kept his training a secret? Why was Mike kept out of the loop?

Those were questions for another moment.

"Trouble," he whispered. Trumbull glanced at him before seeing what he saw. Four heat signatures were ahead of Asher.

"Ambush?" Trumbull asked. Mike gave a single nod. He swiped a hand over his face. What he wouldn't give to be there now, to get Ben out of this and take down the latest of psychotic attackers.

"Is the drone weaponized?" Mike asked. Trumbull shook his head. The priority had been the nearest drone to get eyes on—and a weaponized drone really could cause a diplomatic nightmare, though Mike was trying hard not to belittle those details. Russian military units were supposedly en route to the forest, but their ETA wasn't going to help President Asher anytime soon.

The room went silent as the inevitable happened. Some aide had the drone zoom in more clearly and switch back to live video without infrared; the trees were not as thick where the President was.

Mike wasn't sure if he could watch everything play out in real-time.

Until President Asher shot the ambushers.

There were a few gasps of amazement but Mike just stared. The ambushers didn't get up. And the President—whom they could see more clearly now was indeed the President—kept moving.

His pace was labored. And when the President suddenly came to a dropoff, Mike nearly lurched forward as if to catch him. Every person in the room stared at the President's figure as it fell, bumped, hit and slid down the drop-off until it came to a stop.

The President didn't move.

Trumbull barked at the room. "Send his location to the rescue force _now!_"

-0-0-0-0-

Ben heard the thud when he landed. His mind took him back to London, the huge gas explosion from the building he'd been taken to. Ben didn't remember jumping into that elevator shaft. He was fairly certain Mike pushed him that direction, and then gravity did the rest.

The falling…. _Falling, falling. London bridges falling down…. Olympus fell…._ Ben's eyes were tightly shut, and he was vaguely cognizant of his memories of then and his fears resurfacing. He squeezed his eyes close harder, willing the memories to go away.

_Open your eyes._

With a gasp that tried to compensate for the air being knocked out of him, Ben opened his eyes and came back to the current nightmare he was living. Nerves flashed the awareness throughout his body that he was injured and in pain. Ben moved one leg, then the other. He rolled to his side. His limbs screamed to just rest, but he _could_ move, and that's what mattered.

His hands were empty though.

"No…" The whispered word came out from his lips. He patted around him and checked his pockets, but his gun was gone. That got him to move. The cliff that he'd fallen from was high enough that the gun could be well out of reach. Ben had no idea how long he was out after his fall. He suspected not too long, but he didn't have time to find the gun, even if the cliff would slow down his pursuers.

Ben glanced around quickly in case he could spot it in a last-ditch effort, but it was gone, hidden among the leaves, in crevices of rocks, or who knew where else.

He turned ahead. Forest encompassed every view. His sense of direction was off, but that didn't matter so long as he didn't go backwards towards the attackers. He moved ahead and towards the left. Whether that was west, south, north, or east, he did not know.

Above him on the cliff's edge, Hunter watched. He knew exactly what lay ahead of the American President's path. It gave him a few options…. He could just end it right now and shoot the man, but he'd been instructed to capture him if possible. Injury was completely acceptable, death if no other alternative, but Hunter felt the capture was feasible. Plus, he enjoyed the pursuit.

-0-0-0-0-

"He can't trust the Russians," Mike said.

"We don't know if they are complacent in this attack or not," a general said.

"That's not what I meant," Mike said. Trumbull nodded for him to continue. "The President will assume he can't trust the Russians. He's operating on less intel than we have, but he knows he was attacked, inside the country, on a route and itinerary that was supposed to be under wraps. Even if the Russian military team reaches him…"

"The President will fight against them," Trumbull filled in.

Mike nodded. "Or hide from them."

Director Clemmens sat forward in his chair around the table. "He knows the agents who stayed back at the airport and the hotel. If they're with a rescue, the President would trust them."

"Yes," Mike agreed. "Assuming we can trust the rescue they're with."

Trumbull looked to the Secretaries of State and Defense. "We're working on that."

An aide came in and whispered to the general. Mike watched the general's reaction. It wasn't good. The general cleared his throat.

"Mr. Vice President, a storm is moving into the forest," he said. Mike looked quickly to the drone feed. It was getting shaky, and the transmission was getting noisier. "The drone is experiencing some malfunction because of it."

"What are you saying?" Trumbull demanded.

Mike stared at Ben's blip on the screen. They'd switched back to the infrared since the tree canopy was thicker now. The blip disappeared just then.

"We're losing visual on the President. Just until we get another drone in place."

"Satellites?" Trumbull asked.

The general shook his head. "The storm is making it difficult to see clearly."

The screen suddenly went blank. Mike's stomach dropped.

-0-0-0-0-

Ben didn't try to run anymore. He was doing well to be walking. He was weak and the rain was falling heavily now. Flashes of lightning did nothing to help his nerves. It was dark, and some part of him wondered if the lightning would help illuminate where he was to his pursuers. He hadn't heard them much since his fall, but he knew that didn't mean they weren't on his trail.

He kept trying to analyze his situation, to hone in on whatever threads of information he had, like knowing at least some of the attackers were Russian. But that's as far as he got from remembering their shouts he heard in the forest. His focus disintegrated into a circuitous spiral of doubt and fear.

He kept thinking about what he could do right now; sadly, his training sessions with the Secret Service agents didn't include anything on bare essentials survival in a forest. He had his trainers focus on self-defense, hand-to-hand fighting and guns. The knowledge that he was out of his depth now screamed in his mind.

His body shook. His coat was heavy, the wool weighed down by the rain. He was drenched. His legs shook too, and Ben caught his balance by grabbing at a tree trunk. He looked up at the sky, watching the drops come down at him like tiny bombs.

_Connor_, he thought. He seized on that wonderful thought. He didn't want to think about his son worrying, but that was an inevitable by-product. Again, Ben's focus went to the past….

When he came back from London, Connor had been waiting at the White House. Till 3 in the morning, his son had told him the awful experience from his point of view. Being surrounded by agents and a few friends who were there to be supportive…. Being told he shouldn't watch the video feed but being unable not to. Fearing that his dad would die in front of the whole world…. Ben told Connor he shouldn't have watched, but then Connor admitted he didn't want to miss it if Ben said goodbye to him.

A bright flash of lightning jolted Ben from his memories. The following clap of thunder made him jump too.

Cold, wet, sore and still bleeding from the gash in his side, Ben was afraid of three things. First, that he wouldn't see Connor again. Second, that he wouldn't survive the odds against him.

Third, that he didn't have the courage to keep trying.

Tears leaked from his eyes. All it would take is to let his knees buckle. If he hit the soaked ground right now, he wouldn't get up for some time. His legs shook harder.

Ben wiped a numb hand over his wet face. He blinked away the moisture and his vision cleared briefly.

He stilled. There was a light ahead. Was it? Ben stared ahead at the source. The light was small, fairly distant still. But there was a shadow by it, a large, dark shape against the light. A cabin of some sort.

_Shelter! _Ben found a flood of hope rush through him. He steeled his legs and pushed himself away from the tree trunk that had supported him. He could make it to whatever he was seeing.

He could. He had to.

-0-0-0-0-

Anatoly tried to hide his fidgeting. His gear was all ready. This would be his first mission in the Russian army that might see action. He could feel the tension around him; though his superiors wouldn't admit it, they were nervous. Some whispered that they feared the Americans' response to losing the American President on Russian soil. Already too many hours had passed without deploying a search. He wondered what was causing the delay.

He felt honored though, at 19 years old, to be included on such an important mission. They would search for President Asher, find him, and bring him to safety.

He followed his team to a large truck and climbed in the back with the other soldiers. The truck revved to life and pulled out.

-0-0-0-0-

It was a modest cabin, and that even might be exaggerating, but to Ben it looked like paradise. All he wanted to do was knock on the door and go inside out of the rain and cold.

He knew better than that. He was too vulnerable physically at the moment to let his guard down. He watched from behind a tarp-covered pile of firewood.

Suddenly the door to the cabin opened, and out stepped a woman. Ben shrunk back out of sight. His heart hammered in his chest. He strained to listen for anything.

Footsteps came closer to him. Were they? The rain was messing with his senses. But then he heard the crunch of ground under her feet. Ben tensed. The tarp with the wood was peeled back, flinging water onto Ben. He shrank away before he could stop himself, and the woman gasped as she saw his movement.

Ben flinched away. So did she. She scurried away from him quickly, until her back was up against the cabin and started yelling at him in Russian.

"No, no, wait!" Ben cried out as loud as he dare. "Please!" He held his hands out for her to see, hoping to calm her down.

The woman quieted, but her eyes were wide with fear.

"I won't hurt you," he said. He stood slowly, bracing his hands on the wood pile to help himself to his feet. His legs buckled, but he caught himself from falling with a gasp. The woman eyed him warily.

"Do you have a phone?" he asked. "Phone?" He brought his hand to his ear, mimicking a phone. The woman shook her head. Ben tried not to let his disappointment show.

He was unsure of what was next. He didn't want to frighten her, but he needed help. His appearance couldn't be helping her fears of him. He wondered if she spoke English, or if she recognized him—which he doubted. She seemed simple, and living out here had to reflect a limited exposure to the world.

She pointed at him. Ben frowned as she kept pointing and saying a word he didn't understand. Her eyes were on his side. Ben looked down. His coat and suit jacket underneath were open and showed a bloody pink stain over his dress shirt.

_She sees I'm injured,_ Ben thought. He nodded to her. Hesitantly, she stepped towards him. She held out her hand to him, waving her fingers in a "follow me" motion. She went to the cabin and waited for him.

Ben swallowed. He could cry if he didn't think it would startle her more. He had little pride left at the moment, but he followed her into the cabin.

She kept her distance from him as he stepped inside, until she saw the puddle his coat was leaving on the floor. She gestured to it, and Ben tried to shed it, but the weight of the coat and his injuries had him struggling. The woman came closer and tentatively gripped the coat. Ben nearly stilled, a bit unsure of her proximity and risking scaring her, but she pulled it from him. The difference in weight was tremendous. Ben felt forty pounds lighter.

He also felt colder, if that were possible. His eyes flickered to a fireplace where small flames danced over well-charred wood. It was the most beautiful thing Ben had seen all day.

The woman left with his coat and disappeared into what looked like the only other room of the cabin. Ben pulled back his suit jacket to get a better view of his side. The once-white dress shirt was torn. The bleeding was minimal now, he thought, though he could see the blood had gone down to his hip and soaked into his suit pants.

He flinched when a towel came into view beneath his gaze. The woman had come back in so quietly. She held out the towel for him, gesturing to his hair. He took it from her, looking her over in the dim light of a lamp. She was dressed in a rain jacket, a flannel shirt and thick pants that resembled some sort of canvas material. Her hair was light brown, her skin bearing just a few wrinkles that made him guess she was in her 30s. Her eyes were a warm brown as well.

"Thank you," he said quietly. Ben gingerly ran the towel through his sopping hair. He glanced at the floor around him. It was quite wet. "Sorry," he mumbled, gesturing to the floor.

She nodded at his side. "Hurt," she said simply. Ben was surprised at the English word but he acknowledged her observation with a nod. She reached for him, grasping at his suit jacket. She circled him to free it from his shoulders. Ben held still but let her take the jacket. She set it aside on a chair by a small table. Ben shivered. She frowned as she saw this. He looked away from her, not liking being so helpless in front of a witness. He draped the towel around him like a blanket, groaning slightly as the pull his movements created in his side and overall bruised body.

The woman shook her head at him.

"What?" he asked. She pointed to his shirt, then to a button on her own shirt, followed by pointing again at his own. She motioned like he should take off the mangled shirt.

Slowly, he worked his numb fingers to pull away his tie completely and start at the button at his neck. He kept his eyes down as he unbuttoned it. If not for his horrendous day, the moment would seem entirely too intimate.

She left the room again, and Ben unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. He pulled it off his left arm easily enough but struggled with the right arm. The woman came back with a cloth and a small tin box. She set it on the table and gestured for him to come closer. Ben obeyed. She took the dress shirt by the right sleeve and worked it off his arm. He was left in an undershirt and his suit pants. She took him by the hand and led him to the fire. Ben's legs felt rubbery with each step. He couldn't ever remember feeling so weary before.

Ben gingerly knelt down to be closer to the fire. The woman picked up the tin box from the table and opened it up. Ben saw a few meager first aid supplies. She knelt by him, and after hesitating a moment, she lifted up the undershirt from his side, raising it to his chest. Ben tried to hold still as she gently felt around the edges of the wound. Ben shut his eyes, trying not to groan aloud.

She dabbed at it with the cloth. Ben felt her fingertips over his skin, and his tired mind jumped to the memory of his wife. Maggie's beautiful, kind face, smiling at him… Since her death, he hadn't even considered loving anyone else. It was entirely too complicated in Washington anyway. But the ministering touches of this stranger had Ben wanting some closeness. He missed it.

He bit his lip as the woman wrapped his wound with some gauze, the pressure driving shards of pain through him. Ben drove his prior thoughts from his mind.

"What's your name?" he asked. He couldn't think of the words in his limited Russian. She looked up to him. He tapped his chest and said, "Ben. I'm Ben." He pointed to her.

Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Yula."

Ben smiled softly. "Thank you, Yula."

She finished bandaging his side and pulled his undershirt down over it. Yula gestured to the fire. Ben sat back closer to it. He closed his eyes at the warmth, letting it wash over him. His remaining clothes were still wet but this was the closest to comfortable he'd felt since the attack.

Yula put a tea kettle on the stove. It honestly looked like a wood-burning stove. Ben marveled at that briefly. He watched as she picked up a blanket and brought it to him. He reached for it, but Yula opened it and laid it over his shoulders. He felt her hands rest against his shoulders for a moment.

Ben shifted his body closer to the wall by the fireplace, leaning back. His eyes grew heavier as he watched Yula ready a cup of something. He vaguely was aware that he was hungry, but he was more exhausted. His eyes slipped shut.

He felt a cool hand against his cheek. That's the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.

-0-0-0-0-

"President Asher, you must be aware of the speculation about you," Cynthia Halstrom, news personality and anchor extraordinare, asked him during a post-London primetime special. "With not just one but two attacks on you, being held hostage twice, even assumed dead and nearly executed…."

Ben still remembered the desire he had to kick her as she paused dramatically. He hated these interviews, but politically, he needed to reassure everyone—politicians, citizens, world leaders—that he was fine and a fully-functioning Commander in Chief again.

"…Well, how do you cope?"

Ben had done all he could to stay seated with an appropriate, reassuring smile on his face.

"There are always risks," he had said that day. "And I'm not unsettled about any danger because I'm working for something greater: this country."

"But you still have quite a bit of time left in office," Cynthia said. Ben clenched his jaw but then tried to relax it. The camera would pick up on those clues. He tried to remain as impassive as he could. "Aren't you afraid it could happen again?"

He had smiled and said he and the country were stronger than ever and he knew no matter what, the country, its freedom and democracy would continue on. The interview concluded not too much longer, but he had felt the bile churning in his gut.

As soon as he was clear of the interview room, Ben had stopped by the nearest bathroom and lost everything in his stomach. Was he afraid it could happen again? Of course he was! And after two impossible scenarios that no one actually thought would ever happen, he had seen how vulnerable he was.

He startled himself awake. Instantly he remember his predicament, but for now, seeing the cabin around him and sensing the comforting presence of Yula, he calmed down.

Yula smiled at him.

Ben's head ached. He blinked, trying to clear his mind. He looked to the window of the cabin. It was still dark outside. Yula gestured to his side, where a mug of tea waited.

"Thanks," he said. He took it and carefully sipped at it. It wasn't very hot anymore but warm enough. He remembered Yula making the tea, so he couldn't have been asleep for long.

He didn't want to, but Ben knew he had to think about what to do next. The cabin was an obvious choice to search if his pursuers caught up with him. He had to get to Moscow, back to what was left of his detail and out of this country. A phone would certainly help but he struck out here.

_One thing at a time, _he thought to himself.

"Do you have a car?" he asked Yula. He mimed holding onto a steering wheel. Yula shook her head.

For her benefit, he hid his frustration.

"Is there anyone close by who has a phone or car?" he asked. Yula frowned. She didn't understand him. "It's okay," he said.

He had to move again then. The problem was he didn't trust his body to last, not without more rest at the least. Ben sipped the tea and let it soothe his throat. He finished the mug quickly.

Ben started to stand. His torso ached, and glancing at his arms, Ben saw a variety of bruises from the day's falls. His legs felt slightly stronger but they ached as well. He tried to ignore his feet all together; dress shoes were horrible for a normal day, but running over uneven ground? Disaster.

Yula frowned at him but didn't interfere when he stood.

He checked out the window. Everything was dark outside still, the only light coming from her little cabin. The rain had stopped.

Ben turned to Yula with a smile. "My coat?" He reached for his suit jacket and held it up as an example. Yula frowned and shook her head. Ben gingerly put on his suit jacket, but Yula stopped him, pulling it from him. She shook her head again.

"I need to go," he said.

She frowned again. She reached out and touched his undershirt. He felt the cool press of the fabric against his skin. He assumed she was pointing out he was still damp. She gestured to the room.

Ben wasn't sure what she meant. Yula grabbed his hand and led him to the room. It held a simple bed and a shabby dresser. She pointed to the bed and pushed him towards it while she opened a drawer from the dresser.

The back of Ben's legs hit the edge of the bed, and he stumbled. The room was tiny; he ended up letting himself sit on the bed rather than fall off balance completely.

Yula pulled out a gray long-sleeved knit shirt and handed it to him. She turned her back on him, as if to give him some privacy.

Ben rubbed the dry fabric between his fingers before setting it aside and removing his undershirt. He groaned sharply when he tried to raise his arms. He recoiled. Yula turned to face him, looking… amused? Before he could be sure, Yula grasped the bottom of his shirt. Her fingertips grazed his skin, and Ben couldn't suppress a ticklish shiver.

She said something in Russian softly, then lifted the shirt up. Ben obliged by carefully raising his arms. The undershirt came free. Having the damp undershirt off felt like a step in the right direction for warmth. Yula slowly took the dry long-sleeved shirt from him and unfolded it. Ben reached to help put it on, but Yula said something and put a gentle hand on his chest.

Ben stilled at the contact on his skin. He looked away, his heart rate picking up. He wasn't sure if she was being caring or… seducing him?

She raised the shirt over his head and helped pull it on him. Her fingers touched against his skin again when she pulled it done to cover his chest. Her hand rested on his right side.

Ben cleared his throat. "Thank you." He pushed himself off the bed and stood, not meeting Yula's eyes.

-0-0-0-0-

"Any sign of him?" Trumbull asked.

"Negative, sir."

Mike paced a small corner of the room. Despite the searches of the replacement drones and satellites, they couldn't find the President in the forest. They couldn't find the attackers either now, and that disturbed Mike even more.

"The Russian rescue team is combing the forest but their odds will be better in daylight," a general reported. Mike didn't point out that a lot could happen between now and daylight in Russia.

And every hour the President remained missing, the world was in turmoil. Trumbull already suspended trading with the markets, and the news coverage was rampant with speculation. The White House Press Secretary was constantly denying rumors that President Asher was dead.

Mike clenched his jaw tightly. No one this side of the Atlantic ocean knew if the President was alive either. He just had to hope. That was all he could do.

-0-0-0-0-

The truck he rode in ambled down a dirt road, not much more than a path. In the distance, Anatoly could see a cabin in the slight pre-dawn glow. He and his team had stopped at a few other cabins and homes tucked away in this remote area, but this was the further-most from civilization.

Anatoly was the first to hop out of the truck when it stopped. He followed the team's leader to the door of the cabin. The leader raised his hand to knock but stopped as engines could be heard. Anatoly looked back to the road, where an SUV could be seen coming towards them. Anatoly frowned. Who else would be out here?

-0-0-0-0-

An old painting on the wall rattled from where it hung. Ben frowned, first thinking it was an earthquake until he heard the source of the sound:

"Engines," he whispered. He brushed past Yula and went to the main room of the cabin.

Through the window he saw a military truck, as well as soldiers.

"Russian military," he muttered. Could they be trusted?

But his heart nearly stopped when he saw a dark SUV drive up behind the truck. The soldiers faced the SUV. Three men from the SUV came out and talked to the soldiers. But Ben recognized the SUV. It was identical to the others that ambushed his convoy.

The three men, in perfect synchronization, pulled handguns out and fired at the soldiers.

"No!" Ben shouted. He stared, horrified. A young soldier fell to the ground.

Ben stumbled back. _Think, think!_ He had to evade them, or fight back. He looked to Yula. Her hands covered her mouth in horror.

"Hide," he whispered urgently. He grabbed her hand and motioned for her to go to the bedroom. He went over to the kitchen and searched for any sort of weapon. He pulled a knife from a butcher block.

He remembered a small window was in the bedroom, away from the front of the cabin. If he could just get out without being seen, maybe he could lose them in the woods again. He hurried to the bedroom.

Voices shouted outside the cabin. Yula stood aside as Ben went to open the window. The glass was a solid pane—not something that opened and closed again. He swore under his breath. If he broke the glass, they would certainly hear.

Ben didn't have many options. He turned to find something to break the window with.

"Drop the knife, Mr. President."

Ben froze in his place. The words clearly came from Yula's mouth, which would have shocked him enough, but the gun in her hand clarified his situation. She looked upon him with just a slight measure of satisfaction, but mostly he saw her disciplined stance with the gun.

She was one of them.

He had walked right into a trap, meant to lull him into feeling safe.

She nodded again at the knife. Ben dropped it on the bed.

"Out," she said simply, nodding towards the main room of the cabin. Ben slowly moved that way, his eyes staying on hers.

The cabin door was kicked in and the three men from outside screamed a variety of orders at him. Ben stared at Yula, his eyes boring into hers while the men seized him and yanked him from the cabin.

The cool air that hit him outside made him focus. He thought back to his night-time training sessions and drilled his elbow into one of his captors. The hold on him lessened, and he quickly pressed the advantage to throw off one of the others, but the third captor came forward and kicked him solidly in the chest.

Ben fell to the ground, gasping. His mind screamed at him to get up, to fight, to find a weakness he could exploit. Yula joined the three men in a circle around him and grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head to look up at her.

"Don't embarrass yourself," she said clearly. Gone was any hesitation in her language. She spoke English perfectly well, though he could hear an accent that was European, if not Russian. "You are weak."

Ben's eyes flashed at the words. But before he could resist further and defy her assessment, a sharp needle was shoved into his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Hunter smelled the salt and wrinkled his nose. He didn't much care for the ocean. Perhaps it was his nickname, but he preferred to be in hidden areas, boxed in by foliage and trees. Not out in the relative open of the sea.

The boat rocked under his feet—not a lot, as the boat was a sizeable cargo freighter. But the slight motion was there. He was ready to leave. Payment had been confirmed in his bank account now that he had delivered the American president here.

He could just hop onto the zodiac motor boat waiting for him, but he felt compelled to see Asher. He descended into the bowels of the ship.

A guard stood outside a container in the lower hold of the ship. Hunter did not acknowledge him; there was no need. He opened the small container by its creaky door. The president lay on a dirty mattress, his right hand manacled by a chain that was welded to the side of the container. He sat up like a startled rabbit, causing a flash of pain to cross his face, no doubt from his slight injuries.

"Who are you?" the man asked immediately.

Hunter held up a hand to silence any further questions. "It does not matter." He sat on the ground, out of his captive's reach but completely comfortable. "You won't see me again after today."

"What a shame," Asher said, the bitter sarcasm heavy.

"You are upset. Is it because you fell into my trap?"

Asher glared at him.

"I could have sent my men to keep chasing you through the forest, but a scared animal eventually seeks shelter," Hunter said. He was gloating, but he indulged it. This was the highest profile job of his career—not that he would advertise it. "All I had to do was send my people to any home you might come across."

Ben looked away, and Hunter knew he was twisting the knife nicely.

"Yula is convincing, isn't she?" Hunter said. "If it brings you comfort, you'll see her again. She is… how to say it? A believer."

"Of what?" Asher asked. Hunter smiled.

"You'll find out." Hunter smoothly rolled up to his feet and stood.

"Why didn't you kill me?" the president asked urgently. Hunter considered how much to tell him, if anything. He settled for simply saying:

"You are worth more alive."

With that, Hunter smiled as if they were old friends, and left. He wondered how long before the president broke or died. It did not matter, he supposed. Their paths would not cross again.

-0-0-0-0-

He could dwell on how stupid he'd been to fall for Yula's act, but he was starting to spiral down into panic and despair, and he couldn't have that either. Ben knew he needed defiance, clear and simple. But the question that kept going through his mind was whether or not he would be executed. Was he destined for yet another attempt via live stream or something similar?

He didn't know how he felt about that if it became a reality.

The container that served as his cell held no way to escape that he'd found in the short time since he'd been in it. It was, to describe it perfectly, a metal box.

It did nothing for his pride. He was caged and chained, like an animal. "_A scared animal,"_ the man had taunted him.

He heard voices outside the container. He braced himself as the door squeaked open again.

Yula and two men stood in front of him. Ben hated their smug looks. Somehow, they were more predatory too. Ben recalled what the other man had said. Yula was a "believer." Ben feared he was about to find out what level of fanaticism she held.

"You come with us," she said. The two men unshackled him from the chain but quickly secured his hands with handcuffs in front of him. They each gripped an arm tightly and walked him out of the container.

Ben's heart raced. He tried to take in his surroundings. It was very dim where he was, underground. Or underwater, as he'd heard ships' horns and felt the push of water. There was a flight of stairs that the men half-carried him up. Ben's legs were working better now, thanks to the forced sleep and rest he had gotten courtesy of the drug he was injected with in Russia. A side effect was also a throbbing headache.

_Where am I?_ Ben had no idea if he was in Russian waters, or international, or what. The ship didn't seem to be moving yet, but once it did…. If anyone were trying to find him, he would be very hard to track down in open waters.

Sunlight reached him, and with it Ben felt his spirits lift. Yula led him and his escorts down a crew cabin hallway, and he was shoved into a cabin. His eyes instantly went to a camera setup. His stomach dropped.

Yula nodded to the two men on either side of Ben. They forced him to his knees, though Ben tried to kick out and stop it. The man on his right drew a gun and pressed it against his temple. Ben stilled, but his heart still raced.

Yula flicked on the camera. She nodded to one of the men, who pulled out a piece of paper and started reading.

"To the United States of America, we have your president." Ben couldn't look at the camera, ashamed to be in this position again. The man with the gun seized Ben by his hair and yanked back, forcing him to look at the camera.

"We demand the immediate removal of all American troops from every foreign nation, territory and land, and stay out of international airspace and waters."

Ben's eyes widened. _I'm dead_. There's no way Trumbull or Congress or anyone could or should even consider that demand. That left him with no future.

"Failure to do so will mean your president will suffer, repeatedly."

That didn't sound promising. But it gave Ben a glimpse of his purpose to these terrorists. He was going to be used to demoralize, humiliate and shame the country.

He knew what to do. Ben's heart swelled with both anguish and resolve. He had to write himself off now.

One of his captors punched him across the jaw. Ben's head whipped to the side, and the suddenness jarred him. But he quickly straightened up and faced the camera.

"Based on your response, you will see the condition of your president again tomorrow."

Ben clenched his jaw. He raised his hands as if to swipe at his jaw. He quickly held up two fingers with his right hand, and five with his left. He stared hard into the camera.

Yula saw the motion and nodded at the men. His captors hit him again. The force of it drove Ben to the ground, and he was yanked by the collar of his shirt—the same gray one Yula helped him change into—until he was kneeling again and facing the camera.

Yula was moving to the camera, ready to switch it off. Ben looked pointed at the lens. He swallowed, his mind recalling that late-night conversation with his son after the London attacks. He wouldn't disappoint his son this time. He quickly said:

"I love you, Connor."

He was hit again as Yula turned off the camera. Ben braced his fall slightly with his handcuffed wrists. Yula knelt by him and grabbed him by the hair.

"You think you are clever?"

Ben's breathing was out of sync from the blows he'd suffered, but he managed to smile defiantly at Yula.

She slugged him in the stomach, favoring his injured side. Ben groaned loudly. She yanked his head back again. Ben yelped at the conflicting forces. Yula peered closely at his face.

"Your life is over. We will keep you alive. We'll use you however we want. Treat you however we want…." She slid a finger down the side of his face. "And you will dream of a rescue each night. Only to wake up to this." She hit him again, this time across his cheek. She smiled at him as her two cohorts lifted Ben to his feet.

Ben could feel her eyes on his back as he was led back to his cell.

-0-0-0-0-

Mike's fists were clenched so tightly that he feared he might lash out and hit something as the livestream played out. At the end of the message, as a last sucker punch knocked down President Asher, the feeling of total failure encompassed Mike.

Vice President Trumbull and generals and analysts began buzzing with talk back and forth as soon as the feed ended. Analysis about where the feed came from, clues from the video's background, speech patterns of the man talking and so forth were thrown about the room.

None of these mattered.

"Mike," Trumbull called. Mike forced himself to look at the Vice President. Trumbull drew close to him and led Mike to a corner of the room.

"Sir?" Mike inquired, more out of habit and duty than anything else in that moment.

"They have him, but we're not giving up," Trumbull said. It was supposed to be comforting. Mike shook his head.

"But he is," Mike said. When Trumbull looked confused, Mike sighed. "His hands. Did you count the fingers?"

"Seven."

"No," Mike corrected. "Two, and five. He's telling us to invoke the 25th amendment."

"That's temporary, and we all know it," Trumbull said. Mike appreciated his optimism, but the reality was different, and something apparently everyone in the room needed to face.

"What he said to Connor was a goodbye," Mike explained. His heart ached at the thought. "And telling us to invoke 25? He wants us to write him off."

Trumbull stared at Mike.

"He knows we can't do that."

"He knows we can't give into their demands," Mike countered. "It's not about him. He's always known that." Mike felt tears prick at his eyes and he blinked them quickly away. "Do you know what he ordered me to do in London? He told me to kill him if it meant stopping Barkawi from using him for propaganda. He was ready to die." Mike looked to the screen, where the video was played again, being analyzed frame by frame. "He just told us his life is forfeit."

-0-0-0-0-

a/n: Thanks for reading! Send me your feedback-it keeps me going. Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Connor stared at his phone. The news stream of anchor Cynthia Halstrom was mid-story.

"_You're seeing live now Vice President Trumbull, or I should say, Acting President Trumbull, meeting with the full cabinet. Unanimously, the cabinet has agreed to invoke the 25__th__ Amendment, declaring President Benjamin Asher incapacitated. It's a grim affair, and certainly not the way any vice president wants to assume the highest office—"_

"Hey," came Mike's voice. Connor jumped, startled at the man's sudden appearance in his room. Connor half-hid the phone, not that it mattered. "You don't have to watch that."

"I know." He swallowed. "I keep hoping for some update. Some breaking news crap that someone stumbled across my dad, and he's safe—" His voice cracked, and he didn't bother finishing his sentence.

Mike pulled Connor into a hug.

"Me too."

There were other videos that surfaced every day of his dad, released by the captors. He knew it, but Mike and the other agents were keeping it from him. He could look them up easily too—but he couldn't bring himself to watch while his dad was beaten. The only comfort he took was that if the worst happened, someone would have told him. That hadn't happened. Hopefully it wouldn't.

Connor's eyes fixated on the photo of him and his parents, sitting by his bedside. He tried not to think about being an orphan. He kept praying his dad would make it. But he wasn't naïve. He knew what his dad could be suffering through.

"Mike," he found himself saying.

"Yeah, buddy."

"Last 4th of July, Dad passed out," he said. He knew his dad kept it quiet. Somehow, he knew Mike did not know about it. Mike let go of Connor and watched him with wide eyes as he continued on. "We were watching the fireworks. Dad used to always make comments through the shows, like how he liked the colors in one, or analyzing how they blew up. But he suddenly wasn't talking anymore. He was breathing fast, and his eyes were shut, and then he just … slumped back."

Mike was trying not to overreact at the news, and failing.

"It was only a few moments before his eyes opened again, but…" Connor could see it again. "I've never seen him afraid. Not like that." He swiped at his eyes, amazed his eyes could produce any moisture still. "He wasn't there with me. He was in some nightmare."

Mike pulled Connor back in another hug.

"I'm afraid he's terrified," Connor said softly into Mike's sleeve. "And there's nothing we can do."

-0-0-0-0-

Ben had started counting the days by the videos. He figured the point of this one was to make anyone back home feel guilty.

Day 2 was some hits, kicks and a good knee to his side that broke a rib. He remembered blocking one kick with his handcuffed hands, enough to throw off one of his captors. It didn't do much good for long. It gave Ben a small measure of satisfaction because they cut the video after that.

Day 3 was him being stripped of his shirt on camera. He didn't know what the point of that was until they strung him up by his wrists from some hook wedged in the ceiling. They used a cattle prod.

Day 4 consisted of demands that Ben knew would not be met. If Yula was telling the truth about not being President anymore, who cared what anyone demanded? He was expendable. But the public opinion battle would be hard to win if he kept showing up on live streams as a human punching bag.

Day 5 – and by now, he really isn't sure how much time passed between the videos because his burn marks from Day 3 still seemed too fresh – he was threatened by one of his captors with a knife to his neck. They cut him just deep enough to draw blood before they cut the video. All in all, that was one of the better days.

Day 6 was Ben being tied down to a table and then held down by the two men. He thought that was overkill until they draped a towel over his mouth and nose. Yula, disguised in a balaclava mask, poured a bucket of water over his face. It dawned on him the message they were sending the world. _"Just look at what we're doing to your President. The same things you do to your enemies."_ Ben was sure he would drown by bucket #2. His muscles strained against the restraints, ignoring all other pains he'd suffered before just to fight to survive. He blacked out at one point, only to start coughing when bucket #3 was empty.

Ben was pretty sure they left him alone for a full day after that. He just wasn't sure why.

The door to his black pit opened, and the light made Ben wince. The soft glow swayed within his container. It was a lantern, and Yula set it by Ben on the floor. He flinched away from her when her fingers brushed his hair from his forehead.

"I've been told to shave you," she said, her fingers ghosting down to his chin and cheeks. "I think it's to keep you looking as familiar to people as possible. So they know it's you. For now."

He would love to hit her but his arm was shackled to the wall. Lack of energy was another deterrent.

He heard the tinkling of instruments by him, and the drips of water in a bowl. She dipped a cheap plastic razor in the water, tapped it on the edge of the bowl and leaned over his face. She started to draw the razor over his skin, gently—which surprised Ben. Her fingertips lightly touched his face. He looked away from her, knowing on some level she was messing with him.

"Are you relieved?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she didn't get upset, but continued: "The responsibility and loyalty you have to your country is no more. They discarded you as their leader, and another takes your place. In some ways, it's a coup."

Ben thought about telling her to read the Constitution, or go to hell, but he made himself stay quiet.

"In some ways, I've freed you," she said. He glared at her, and Yula grinned. "I said 'some.' But it's true. You have no obligation to them anymore. It's like a divorce."

At that, she slid a finger down his cheek. Ben moved his head back but suddenly she seized him by his hair. He glared at her, but it only made Yula smile. He hated her.

"Do you still think about your wife?"

Something inside Ben made him want to lash out. He caught himself clenching his fists before he made himself relax and not react. But she caught it. She let go of his hair and slid her hand down the side of his face, down his neck, to his chest. Ben wanted to recoil. He stared at her, unwilling to flinch.

Yula set the razor down and leaned closer to Ben. With each inch, she watched carefully, gauging Ben's reaction. Ben let her come closer. Closer.

She pressed her lips to his, thinking—well, Ben didn't care what she thought. His fingers grasped the razor she had set down.

Quickly he brought it to her neck, the cheap blade set against the tendons.

"You think that will kill me?" Yula said, her lips just hovering now over his. He hoped it would but knew better. Even if he killed Yula, he'd be left chained to the wall and still at the mercy of the other captors.

"No," Ben answered quietly. "Now get off me." He gave her a shove. Yula's eyes flashed with anger. Ben had no problem with scorning her.

"You'll wish you hadn't done that," she hissed. "You think you'll find any kindness from anyone else?"

"You're trying to mess with my head, not shower me with kindness," he shot back.

Yula kicked the razor out of his hand, making Ben hiss in pain at the blunt pain to his fingers. She lunged at him, pinning him at his chest with her knees.

"Every day, you will scream and bleed, so America can't forget about you. They won't give in to our demands. We know this. But they'll be the fools of the world, embarrassed every time we stream you in captivity. Like a dog." Yula grinned. "And when I'm told to finally let you go, it won't be to death. We'll sell you to the highest bidder."

Ben tried to shut out what she was saying, not that it was any worse than he imagined, but knowing this was their plan for him weighed him down with helplessness and fear.

"Already, many are offering to pay. Terrorists who want to execute you. Extremists who want to program you into a radical. Traffickers who want you for… so many reasons." She thrived on threatening him, Ben saw. "And when that time comes, you'll think back to this moment, wishing you were here again. With me."

Yula kissed him harshly, digging her knees into his chest as she leaned over him more. Ben groaned at the pressure on his bruised torso, but she didn't let up. Ben tried to push her off, but she didn't let up. He tried to turn his head away, but she grabbed him by the hair again, forcing him to still.

She finally released him from her kiss, out of breath. "Now hold still."

Grabbing the razor again with one hand and giving a firm yank with the other tangled in his hair, Yula finished her task and shaved him.

Ben had a variety of nicks and cuts when she was done.

-0-0-0-0-

Mike was officially assigned to Presidential detail still. But he knew President Trumbull would grant him leave—maybe.

"You want to what?" President Trumbull said skeptically.

Mike didn't waver. "I want to go out there. Track down where he could be, follow any leads—"

"You know we have all—_all_—our intelligence sources tearing up every source and corner of the earth looking for him," Trumbull said. "You're not plugged into that world."

"No, but the closer I am, as soon as they turn up something, I can go in and –"

"Rescue him?" The look of pity in Trumbull's eyes made Mike angry but he kept it in check. "This isn't your fault."

"He's got no one on his side right now, no one with him, and that's my fault," Mike argued back.

Trumbull leaned back in his chair. "This isn't like the other times. Wherever he is, the world around him is going on. There's not massive chaos that you can shoot your way through. As much as I hate to admit it, we have to be careful. The whole world is on edge about what we're going to do, and as much as I want to go in guns blazing and take down every country remotely linked to this, I can't."

Mike knew what he meant, but the sarcastic corner of his mind was itching to comment on how quickly Trumbull had become a backseat diplomat.

"I understand, sir."

Trumbull sighed. "Can I give you another option?" Mike nodded. "Join Connor's detail—if you want, and for as long as you want. You can come back to the Presidential detail whenever you want too, so it's not a demotion. And, if we get close, if we hear anything that we can start moving on, I'll send you to be there."

Mike let the President's suggestions sink in.

"Thank you, sir. I'd like to take you up on that."

It was as good as he could hope for.

-0-0-0-0-

There was one positive thing about not being president anymore. He didn't have to make the call about what to do about some American hostage in a distant land.

Or ocean. Ben had no idea where he was still but he was bobbing up and down and side to side with the rest of the boat.

Either way, he wasn't in the hot seat anymore. What happened to him wasn't his decision.

Ben berated himself as soon as that thought came to mind. _Since when did I become so passive?_ Why did he bother to learn to fight and defend himself if he sat back and got beaten and tortured?

He had to fight. But he knew he didn't stand a chance. Not now, not like this. Or did he? He wasn't Mike Banning. Crazy and over-confident weren't things he felt in life- and death-situations. So how did he take control?

Hearing Yula declare so eagerly that he was to be used to embarrass and bring down his country made him want to defiantly fight back. Or not allow it….

What if he took himself out of the equation? Mike understood what Ben asked in London, to kill him so Ben couldn't be used for propaganda. Should that be his path now?

He couldn't give up. But he wanted to. He was tired. And his chances of being rescued….

Ben felt a lump come to his throat. That news anchor's question came back? _"Don't you fear it happening again?"_ or whatever it was she'd said…. Yes! And now in the thick of it, with no hope, was it bad he just wanted to lay down and submit to the fate that would come sooner or later?

Yula's taunts flooded his mind next. The possibilities of where he'd end up after this… another round of torture, maybe in some desert camp, or left to languish in a dark cell, or worse… to have to serve or do something against his will…

When he was thirteen, his parents took the family dog, Copper, to put him down. The dog was 6 years old, still young in terms of life expectancy, but he was constantly ill. Ben's dad said that Copper deserved a better quality of life but since that wasn't there, it was better to end the suffering. Ben was that dog now….

He started to shake. Maybe it was the fever that had been hovering since being water-boarded, or maybe this was a breakdown. Ben covered his head with his arms as best he could, hiding himself in the darkness of the metal container.

-0-0-0-

a/n: please review (and thank you to those who have!). As a sparse fandom, it's very motivating to have any hints that someone is reading. Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

a/n: Yes, long overdue. Let me know if anyone's still interested in this story. :)

Chapter Six

The news was even getting tired of covering the frequent videos of President Asher's captivity. What more could they say about it? Analysts and TV personalities argued about the President's mental state, physical health, odds of survival, political fallout, and so on. The speculation was endless and yet circuitous. Round and round they talked, with no end in sight.

Mike could almost sense the relief of the news team on TV when they covered a tornado that ripped apart a town. It was a tragedy but a break from a story that was becoming "old" news.

Mike wanted to shoot the TV.

It was late. Lynne most likely would wake up soon and need some comfort to go back to sleep—a habit since his daughter had her stay at the hospital. Mike turned his attention to the videos of the President.

He hated watching them, hated seeing how many views they got, but he watched. Maybe it was self-torture but he told himself at some point, there would be a clue. Ben would find a way to tell him something. He would.

The lump in his throat grew as he watched Ben barely able to struggle against the SOBs who held him. Mike stopped the video. What if Ben didn't fight anymore? Blocking out any outside analysis, Mike could see Ben's health was fading. He looked pale, and he coughed – more like wheezed – frequently.

Mike drew a deep breath and clicked on the video to keep playing. He blinked, and then clicked the video to stop it.

"What?..." he said aloud. Mike stared at the video, specifically a small window in the background. It was the first time this angle had been shown, just slightly different than the other videos of Ben. Mike played back the video a few moments earlier and stared hard at that was a cloud in the background showing through that window. But the cloud _moved_, up and down, as the video played.

Mike played it again. _What moves up and down like that?_

Slowly he smiled as hope filled his chest. "Water. They're on a boat."

Mike picked up the phone. This was the break they needed.

-0-0-0-

"You're going for $1 billion dollars right now," Yula said as she sat next to Ben in his pathetic makeshift cell. She chewed loudly between bites of some meal in a tin pan. "We think it's early. You'll go for double that, maybe triple."

Ben didn't need to comment. Yula enjoyed chatting, digging away at his morale as he considered the worth of a president to bidding terrorist groups and criminals.

"You want to know who? Many. Al Qaeda, but no one thinks they can actually pay. Some that are merely driving up the price. Who do you want to go to?" she asked. "Drug cartels? They can actually pay."

Ben shifted so that his bare back was to her. His shirt had been destroyed in the past day or two, courtesy of his captors' rough handling. Yula's comment on drug cartels made him nervous. He'd made a lot of enemies there, fighting the influx of drugs in the country and pushing every leverage and force he could on those countries plagued by cartels. He would be executed for sure, perhaps more swiftly though.

Yula's fingertips touched his back. They moved along his skin, caressing it. His breath caught in his throat. He debated between pulling away from her and just letting her touch linger. He was essentially powerless, and if he angered her, she had no qualms about hurting him more.

_When did I give in?_ The fact that he was broken made him feel even worse.

"Why did you not remarry?" she asked. Ben shut his eyes. He didn't want to have any conversation with Yula, much less this one. "You will tell me." At that, she snaked her hand to his side, to his chest. She stopped there for a moment, and Ben's breathing hitched. She moved her hand lower, her fingertips ghosting over his skin.

"Too complicated," he spat out quickly and quietly. Yula's hand stopped. She gently tickled her fingers over his stomach.

"You had a girl brought in then?" she continued. Ben rolled his eyes. Of course she would assume he turned to something so base.

"No."

Yula pressed her hand against his torso, pushing him to his back so he had to face her as she leaned over him.

"You still love your Maggie?" Yula asked. Ben didn't like hearing his wife's name from Yula, but for once, she didn't seem to be taunting him. She was curious—maybe love wasn't something Yula was capable of.

Ben nodded.

Yula watched him, maybe thinking he was lying. He grew uncomfortable with her scrutiny, and her hand still resting on his torso. Slowly, she started to slide her hand up his chest to his face. She cupped his chin gently.

"She is lucky then."

With that, Yula leaned over Ben and kissed him on the cheek. Her eyes watched his carefully. Ben couldn't mask his hate for her. Yula grinned and stood up, leaving him.

Ben's chest heaved as emotion drove his breathing into a hectic pace. Yula was masterful at making him feel hate, hope, despair, sorrow…. Just when he thought maybe sincerity was possible, she reminded him of his helplessness and his deepest pains in losing Maggie.

The only good it did was make Ben feel like he had to fight. He wasn't broken—_I'm not! _He had to rest, and recover, and get stronger. Somehow. The time would come. Opportunity for escape or a rescue would come. Hadn't he resolved to learn how to defend himself and to fight back these past months? What was it for if he wasn't willing to fight now?

Ben couldn't give up.

0-0-0-0

Despite the lead with the boat, the generals advising Acting President Trumbull were skeptical about finding Ben. The ocean, apparently, is a big place. Mike nearly cussed them all out for their sarcastic reception of his lead. And despite his track record of pulling off the impossible, the generals doubted his value.

Thankfully, Trumbull didn't. He sent Mike on a military plane to Ramstein Air Force base—far away enough from Russia but close to possible targets. Mike came to the operations center. Intelligence—really, not more than tips—came in and out there. Nothing actionable yet though.

There were three strike teams ready to go in a moment's notice. They looked bored. Mike wondered how long they would be on call without a break. They lounged, slept, played cards, ate, and checked their weapons. Mike had his set of gear and weaponry ready to go.

But no new intel came yet. Mike stood behind men and women staring at computers, monitoring movements and chatter.

"Commander?" one lieutenant called out. Mike watched the commander on watch lean over the lieutenant. He couldn't hear what they said. He moved closer….

"…It's lining up with all the chatter."

"What chatter?" Mike questioned. The commander looked to him with some hesitancy. Mike stared at him until the commander answered.

"Financial chatter mostly," the commander hedged. "Several groups are talking about a rare pawn."

Mike frowned. "Like the chess piece? What's that code for? The President?"

The commander nodded. "That's what we're thinking. They're bidding. It's an auction but we're getting bits and pieces of the intel as it comes in."

"Who's the intel coming from?" Mike asked.

The commander nodded at the lieutenant. The lieutenant squinted at his screen.

"A source in Al Qaeda. Sounds like they're trying to buy but not succeeding. It's just part of the conversation we're getting."

Mike looked between the lieutenant and the commander. "You've had this for awhile. So what's new that has you looking so uncomfortable?"

"Al Qaeda is screaming about being outbid. By North Korea."

Mike's jaw clenched so hard he felt the joint pop.

-0-0-0-0-

_Ben frowned as one of his training detail, a Secret Service agent named Danforth, took the gun from Ben's hands. _

_"Not tonight, Mr. President," Agent Danforth said. Danforth handed the gun to the supervisor over the gun range. "Please follow me."_

_Ben did, but he didn't like this change. He was supposed to be improving his aim. He'd gotten good at shooting, or at least he liked to think that the surprise on the agents' faces as he shot wasn't fake._

_"What have you got up your sleeve, Danforth?" Ben questioned. The agent led him to a room with cushioned floor mats set out in a large square._

_Agent Danforth gestured to the mats. "How often are you carrying a gun, sir?" _

_Ben quirked a grin but wiped it away. "Never in public," he said._

_Danforth nodded. "And I figured, the situation you're really training for is if you are being held at gunpoint."_

_Ben felt his stomach drop at the truth of his words but kept his composure. _

_"So, I want to show you how to disarm someone who has a gun pointed at you. Stand over here, please."_

Ben opened his eyes, taking in very little light in his metal prison. Outside, he heard birds squawking, seabirds of some sort. He hadn't seen them yet, given his limited exposure to the outside.

His mind drifted to his dream, memories of not long ago. Could he pull off any sort of maneuvers he had learned in his current state?

Ben shifted and grimaced at the sharp pull in his torso. He could feel muscles and bone protest, though the pain wasn't as strong as a couple of days turned to his side and braced himself with his hands. Slowly, he started doing push-ups. His arms shook with the taxing impact that seemed to connect directly to every injury in his body.

He counted himself lucky to get to 10 pushups.

He collapsed.

Footsteps though made him sit up. He could recognize the steps—lighter than the others. _Yula._

Ben scooted back from the door, subconsciously snarling at himself for the retreat. Even so, he braced himself for what was to come.

The door to the metal container opened, letting in more light than he was used to. Ben blinked and had to look away.

"We have a surprise for you, Ben," Yula said. Two men came in and grabbed Ben, making him stand. The chain on his right wrist was removed. They man-handled him out of the container, and while he feared another beating was in his immediate future, something was different this time. He couldn't pinpoint what, but something, the energy of his captors….

They were smiling.

The men forced Ben's hands in front of him, and Yula slipped a ziptie over them and gave a harsh yank on the slack. The plastic quickly bit into his skin. They led him up the stairs.

"We have a winner, Ben," Yula said. "Want to know the final price for you?"

_No,_ Ben thought, but he knew he wasn't going to get his way.

"One point eight billion," she said with a smirk.

"Not quite what you wanted," Ben said, hoping to wipe that smirk from her face.

"No," she said. "We found few could actually pay much more, at least not without drawing attention from your government. It came down to one buyer."

Ben could hear those seabirds again. His breath caught in his throat as the sound grew louder. Yula was taking him to the deck of the ship.

She caught him taking in the daylight. The men at either side of him stopped, and shoved him against an iron wall. Ben winced at the impact on old bruises. Yula came closer to him until she was pressing her body against his, leaning well into his personal space.

"Should I tell you who, or do you want to be surprised?"

Ben glared at her. Part of him was happy to be sold to whoever, if it meant being away from this she-devil.

Yula grinned. "Kang."

Ben couldn't school any expression. "He's dead." Yula's grin grew.

"Not his brother."

The shock sunk in, deeper and deeper. Kang's brother, and whoever he was working with to pony up $1.8 billion, would have the worst in store for him. Not to mention using him to humiliate him, personally and politically, shaming the country, and no doubt vengeful treatment on behalf of the dead terrorist.

Ben tried to keep his breathing in check. Yula saw all of this. She let out a laugh, and then kissed Ben. Ben shook his head, trying to break contact but he could feel her grin against his mouth. She pulled back only slightly.

"You will miss me, I am sure."

She kissed him once more, just a peck this time. Ben registered the sound of a motor boat approaching. Yula's men yanked him out further on deck.

The motor boat was a zodiac of sorts. Ben didn't recognize any faces but they were Korean, he could tell. Ben took a step back. Yula stood behind him, stopping him.

"Hold him!" Yula snapped at her men. She leaned close to Ben's ear. "Don't worry. Kang doesn't want to kill you. I hear he has a collection of rare animals. Maybe he will place you in a cage next to a white tiger."

Ben turned sharply to her, glaring, but Yula was unfazed.

"Goodbye, Ben," she said.

-0-0-0-

a/n: more to come!


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